


Frank Has Died of Dysentery

by Dira Sudis (dsudis)



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen, Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-08
Updated: 2009-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:56:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"And we lost Toro fording a river, but I'm getting pretty good at hunting, so I don't think Mikey and I will have to eat you."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Frank Has Died of Dysentery

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Lies and damned lies, but at least no statistics.
> 
> Beta thanks to strangecobwebs!!
> 
> This story was first posted June 6, 2007.

There had been a stack of spare key cards on the table, and Bob only had to try three of them before one let him into Gerard's room. Gerard was sitting perfectly still in the middle of the tangled covers, staring intently at his laptop. He didn't look up when Bob pushed the door shut.

"Hey," Bob said, making his way over to the bed. "How's it going?"

"Frank died of dysentery," Gerard said, still not looking up. "And we lost Toro fording a river, but I'm getting pretty good at hunting, so I don't think Mikey and I will have to eat you."

"Good," Bob muttered, lying down on the bed as soon as he reached it, burrowing his feet into a fold of the covers. This was the one thing that didn't suck about being horrifically-but-not-contagiously sick: nobody questioned his right to lie down where he wanted to, not even Gerard, not even after he'd holed up in here for an entire day with his laptop.

Frank had said, "He's possibly having some kind of breakdown," without looking away from Ray's sleeping face. Bob thought _Frank_ was possibly having some kind of breakdown--he didn't seem to have slept since everyone but him and Gerard had simultaneously fallen ill--but Bob wasn't about to call Frank on it. He looked mildly deranged, and Bob still wasn't good at standing upright for long periods of time.

"You got a Donner Party patch for Oregon Trail?"

"No, of course not, you don't fuck with a classic." Gerard still hadn't looked away from the screen.

Bob could see it from where he was lying, and it did look just like he vaguely remembered from when he was a kid: a wagon in a patch of green hovering above a weather report. Gerard was apparently putting a lot of thought into whether or not to go hunting.

Bob looked around for a pillow and spotted Gerard's cell phone and four empty soda cans--one, propped carefully upright in a fold of blanket, had the filter end of a cigarette sticking out of the top like a fuse--but the pillows had all disappeared. Bob gave up and rested his head on his arm. "So Frank says Mikey says you're trying to use Oregon Trail to predict the future."

That had worried him, that Frank was getting his information about Gerard from Mikey. Mikey had been off the tour for weeks, and Gerard was across the hall. Things apparently got seriously weird when it was Frank and Gerard who were healthy and the rest of them started falling apart. It wasn't exactly the _biggest_ reason Bob never wanted to even _smell_ chicken ever again, but it was a concern.

"That's silly," Gerard muttered, finally pressing _N_. "Everybody knows I use _The Sims_ to predict the future."

"I thought you used The Sims to therapeutically set people on fire when they irritated you."

Gerard flicked a sideways glance, finally. He met Bob's eyes for a fraction of a second before his gaze swept down to Bob's leg and then settled back on the computer. "I'm not really into setting people on fire these days."

Bob reached out and patted Gerard's knee, careful not to jostle the laptop. "Aww, _Gerard_, you say the sweetest things."

"Yeah, yeah," Gerard muttered. "It's just until I forget what you look like throwing up your _liver_, okay?"

Bob didn't think he was ever going to forget any of the times he'd seen _Gerard_ puking up _his_ liver, but he didn't really feel like arguing. He let his eyes close, and left his hand resting on Gerard's knee.

Gerard had been around at the beginning, when they all went down at once like some kind of apocalyptic plague. Bob distinctly remembered Gerard sitting on the bathroom floor with him during the "don't freak out, but if this doesn't stop we have to go to the hospital," phase. Gerard hadn't disappeared into his own hotel room until Bob and Ray and the crew were all safely recovering. Frank had apparently been unable to stop the obsessive monitoring so far, but Bob had a feeling he'd hit the wall soon. Once he got some sleep, he'd probably calm down.

That just left Gerard and his day-long Oregon Trail marathon. Bob heard him punch another key, a sudden decisive click, and felt his weight shift as he leaned in to stare at the screen.

"You realize that none of us are _actually_ dying, right?"

Gerard's knee twitched, and his voice had a stubborn edge as he muttered, "I'm not _psychotic_."

Bob opened his eyes, twisting to look up at Gerard's face. "Wait, are you seriously trying to use Oregon Trail to predict the future?"

"No!" Gerard sounded openly defensive now, voice pitching upward. "I was just--I came in here last night and put all your names in, and everybody died, and I couldn't--I know it's stupid, okay? There just--there has to be a way to get all of us to Oregon alive."

Bob squinted at Gerard. He didn't look as freaked out as Frank, but then it could be harder to tell with Gerard. Gerard on a good day looked a lot closer to deranged than most people. Everybody had gotten sick, and Mikey had been gone for a while now, and Frank had left Gerard over here by himself for an entire day. He'd been trying to get everybody to Oregon alive. He'd failed every time, and he couldn't stop trying.

Bob cleared his throat. "You realize that game is propaganda from early PC manufacturers trying to convince kids that the world outside is horrifically dangerous and they're safer indoors, playing with computers, right?"

Gerard stared at Bob like he'd just said Bugs Bunny was responsible for Gerard's alcoholism. "It's _Oregon Trail_."

Bob gave up and scooted closer, resting his head on Gerard's thigh where he could see the computer more easily. "You said you're getting good at hunting?"

"Yeah," Gerard said. "I mean, pretty good. Those rabbits are fucking fast."

"Yeah," Bob said, squirming around, looking for a comfortable position until Gerard finally draped an arm around him, leaving one hand hovering over the keyboard. "It always worked better with one person steering and one shooting. You wanna try that?"

Bob settled his finger lightly on the space bar, and Gerard pressed _Y_.


End file.
